


The Deaconomicon

by Kicker



Series: Storytime with Deacon [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Camping, Come on, Gen, I am infinitely reliable, Innuendo, Pirates, Unreliable Narrator, Vandalism, also a great musician, that's just RUDE, wait
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 06:40:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8317723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: Every age has its storytellers, from Homer to Austen to Pratchett. Some of them are slightly more reliable narrators than others but! all of them did one important thing.They entertained.This is a collection of ficlets, mostly spawned from prompts, in which Deacon recounts tales of his adventures in the Commonwealth. Many of them involve being thrown off the Prydwen. Don't ask why, it's just something that kept happening.





	1. And So Our Story Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Most of these stories came from a prompt list I posted back in May or June. It was far more popular than I ever dreamed and in the course of it (I ended up doing [more than 50 of the damn things](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150839795545/50-prompts-50ish-fics)) a few threads emerged, with brand new sole survivors who don't exist in any playthrough I've done, strong and positive friendships between our favourite companions, and the monster that is...
> 
> **Deacon the Teller of Tales**  
>  **Deacon the Bard**  
>  **Deacon the totally reliable narrator _thank you very much._**
> 
> This is his story. Kinda. I hope you enjoy.

**“So, I found this waterfall…”**

Maxson turned around and fixed the Paladin with a steely glare. “And?”

“It appears to be a good source of potable water,” said Danse, his eyebrows rising slightly at the harshness of the Elder’s tone. “And besides, we’ve been walking for days. I for one could do with a wash.”

Maxson stroked his beard. “The light is fading,” he said. “This seems as good a spot as any to shelter for the night.”

“Outstanding,” said the Paladin.

They worked quickly to set up a rough camp. Soon, with bedrolls laid out behind them in worn but perfectly serviceable Brotherhood tents, they sat down together in front of a small campfire. A pan of noodles bubbled over the flames, sending savory aromas up into the night air.

“I admire you, Danse,” said Maxson, idly poking at the fire with a stick.

Danse’s eyebrows shot up high on his forehead. “You do?” he said.

“I expect only the best from my men,” said Maxson. “And that is what you provide. Consistently. Cheerfully.”

“It…” said Danse. “I…”

“And,” said Maxson, with an awkward cough, “on a personal level…”

Just then, a sound rang out around the forest.

“What was that?” asked Maxson, blanching under his beard.

“I’m not sure,” said Danse, looking around the clearing, brow furrowed.

“It sounded like a word,” said the Elder. “Or a name.”

Whatever it was, it was indistinguishable over the low roar of the waterfall.

“As I was saying,” said Maxson, but before he could continue, it happened again. A sound boomed out, crashing in on the idyllic scene like an unexpected deathclaw. This time it did sound like a word, and a voice, a voice that seemed more urgent, sharper, and infinitely more annoying than before.

“Deacon,” says Charmer. “Come on. I need you to help me with something.”

“I’m kinda busy right now,” he says.

She blinks. “You’re sitting in a bar making two teddy bears talk to each other.”

“Yeah,” says Deacon, winking at MacCready, whose shoulders are shaking with laughter. “Like I said. I’m busy.”

Charmer sighs. “Come on. This is important. Where did you get the bears anyway?”

Deacon shrugs. “Around.”

“And… what have you done to their faces?”

“Eyebrows,” he says, holding up one. He puts it down and lifts the other, waggling it in the air. “And beard. They’re very important for the story.”

MacCready snorts.

Charmer grabs the bearded bear from Deacon’s hands and stares into its cold, black eyes. She can’t possibly miss the rip that runs down the side of the bear’s face, white stuffing showing through rough stitches.

“It was like that when I found it,” says Deacon.

“I thought you said you hadn’t seen him in the flesh,” she says, a suspicious tone entering her voice.

“Well,” he says, getting to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his knees. “That might not have been _entirely_ true. Back then I wasn’t sure if I could trust you with my deepest, darkest secrets. But now… well.”

In reply, she raises an eyebrow. 

He sidles up beside her and claps an arm around her shoulders. “Oh, Charmer,” he says. “Do I have some stories for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/148009012913/could-you-do-15-with-danse-and-maxson-itd-make).


	2. Initiating Mayhem

**“I swear, it was an accident.”**

The Elder picked up the file, and shook it. Droplets of brown liquid spattered onto the mess hall table and the floor, filling the air with the smell of sugar. He sighed in irritation, furrowed his brow, all of the usual stuff. You know how he is.

“I would hope so,” he said. “Otherwise there would be some serious questions to be asked.”

The Initiate - a very handsome fellow - was still hovering nearby with an empty bottle in his hand. He’d just been walking past the Elder’s table when a chair had jumped out and tangled with his ankles, causing him to trip. He’d tried to break his fall with a hand on the table; unfortunately, that hand had contained a freshly-opened bottle of Nuka-Cola. Now the table contained most of the Nuka-Cola.

So did the report with the word ‘Railroad’ in the title.

The Elder glared up at the Initiate, wiping sugary goo from his hands. He was probably trying to work out who this devilishly handsome fellow was. “Why are you wearing sunglasses in here?” he asked. “Take them off.”

Rude.

“Can’t,” replied the Initiate.

The Elder glared some more. “Why not?”

“Doctor’s orders,” said the Initiate.

The Elder, still glaring, drummed his fingers on the table for good effect.

The Initate couldn’t (and still can’t) read minds but he was willing to bet that what was going through that angry little brain under that neat little undercut was something like:

_One._  
Two.  
Three.  
Four.  
Fi…

“Retinopathy,” said the Initiate, just as the Elder was opening his mouth to speak. “A stockpile of fusion cores went off right in front of me. Boom. Happened three weeks ago and I still can’t see orange.”

The Initiate looked down at himself. “Oh shit. I am wearing the right color, right?”

The Elder’s lips tightened. He had an answer to one question, sure, but it looked like there was another one just poking a tentative toe into the waters of the big guy’s mind.

“I don’t know your face, soldier,” said the Elder. “Where are you from?”

“University Point,” said the Initiate.

“You’re from the Commonwealth, then,” said the Elder. “I wasn’t aware that we were openly recruiting.”

“Yeah,” said the Initiate. “Knight who recruited me told me there’d be power armor and hot men. Looking forward to getting my hands on both, if you know what I’m saying.”

The Elder narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said “I don’t know.”

The Initiate grinned lasciviously. “Maybe I can show you?”

Slamming his hands on the table, sending a fine spray of Nuka-Cola into the air, the Elder rose to his feet. Quite an imposing sight, what with the big beard and big shoulders and even bigger coat. And the fury, of course.

“Perhaps,” he said, wiping his hands clean again, “you don’t realise who I am. As you’re a new recruit, I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Once. I am Elder Maxson of the Brotherhood of…”

The Initiate snorted. “Elder? Sure, kid. Whatever.”

At this, the Elder bristled.

(Yeah, visibly. It’s a thing you can only do with a beard of a certain length and magnificence.)

“You will speak to me with more respect,” he said, “or I’ll have you thrown off the ship.”

“Oh,” said the Initiate. “Is that before or after I get my power armor?”

 

And that, kids, is the story of how I got thrown off the Prydwen the _first_ time. 100% true and verified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146110622515/42-for-maxson-and-deacon).


	3. The Soul Of Creativity

**“The paint’s supposed to go where?”**

Proctor Ingram was - still is - a very patient woman. But after a few months in the Commonwealth, maintaining every system on the Prydwen as well as dealing with whatever equipment the crew had managed to trash on their latest ground missions, her nerves may have been getting a little raw.

“Maybe if you took those sunglasses off, you’d be able to see where you were putting it,” she said.

“Can’t,” said the Initiate, with a dazzling grin that almost certainly melted her heart. Well, maybe. A little bit. “Explosion, bright, retinopathy. You know.”

“Huh,” she said. “Is that so?”

“Yup,” said the Initiate.

She folded her giant metal arms. Funny how many of these guys still do that, even in a set of power armor. “See, when it comes to eye injuries,” she said, “Cade normally signs people off. Especially if they work with things they, you know, need to see.”

“Oh, I insisted,” said the Initiate. “A little bit of blindness can’t keep me away from my Brotherhood-ly duties.”

“Right,” she said, slowly. “Well, just touch up the existing paintwork, and don’t forget the rank on the arm. God forbid we forget ranks and responsibilities.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” said the Initiate. “I mean, Proctor.”

She frowned, and returned to her own task, hammering out the dents in another damaged chunk of power armor.

The Initiate turned his attention back to the suit. It had been through a hell of a time. Scorched, battered, and particularly pungent. The eye-watering vapors from the paint weren’t much better, so to keep himself cheerful he whistled as he worked. And he did like to make a cheery and friendly atmosphere for the rest of the crew, as well.

“Will you stop that?” said the Proctor.

Rude.

“All done,” said the Initiate after a little while.

“Good,” said the Proctor. “I’m sure he’ll be along to collect it shortly. In the meantime, maybe you want to go rest those eyes of yours after so much close work?”

“Nah, I’m good,” said the Initiate. “Who’s next?”

She gave him a hard stare, but pointed him at another suit. “Same job there,” she said. “Clean it up a bit, and retouch the paintwork.”

Before he could, in walked a tall figure. He was clad in the usual orange, fireproof, and most importantly, _clingy_ Brotherhood flight suit.

“Paladin Danse,” said Ingram, with a broad smile. “Good to see you.”

The Initiate pulled a neat little salute. Ranks and responsibilities, very important in the old Brotherhood.

The Paladin nodded politely. “Is my armor ready?” he asked.

“Sure is,” said the Initiate. “All touched up and ready to go.”

“Outstanding,” said the Paladin. He climbed into his suit, with the usual sshhhwwooopp and scchtttummkk (those are the technical terms), and headed out toward the mess hall.

As he went, the Proctor watched him. As she watched him, her brow furrowed.

“Hold on,” said the Proctor.

“Is there a problem?” said the Paladin, stopping dead.

Her eyes drifted down over the back of his suit. “No,” she said. “Just a final check.”

The Initiate and the Proctor watched him go, paintbrush and hammer in hand, respectively. Then the Proctor cleared her throat. “I red heart Elder Maxson?” she asked, quietly.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?“ said the Initiate, with a grin, and made to return to the other suit.

He was stopped by a heavy metal hand landing on his shoulder.

“I don’t know who you are,” said the Proctor, as the first howls of laughter started to echo down the Prydwen. “I’m sure you wouldn’t tell me, even if I asked. But I suggest you make yourself scarce. Now.”

And that, friends, is the story of how I narrowly avoided getting thrown off the Prydwen for the _third_ time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146615241515/if-ur-still-taking-requests-how-about-19-with).
> 
> Also note that the second Prydwen Incident was actually written by GamerAmelli and can be found here: [Star Deacon](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/146463229613/star-deacon).


	4. He Totally Does Use Product

 

**“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”**

The Lancer-Initiate was, generally speaking, the unflappable type. You go through a lot of training in the Brotherhood to make sure of that. Can’t have flapping on the battlefield, not unless you’ve got a whole crew of trained battlepigeons to do your bidding.

(now there’s an idea.)

Anyway, he was, as mentioned, the model of unflappability. He’d been on board the Prydwen for a few months, perusing technical documentation and constantly rubbing shoulders with the finest specimens of humanity the Brotherhood of Steel had to offer. That had de-flappabled him still further.

However, it still hadn’t truly prepared him for the sight that greeted him on that fateful night, as he returned to his bunk after a long day of technical documenting and shoulder-rubbing.

It was weird enough to begin with that half the crew’s bunks were out in the open walkways of the zep, especially with all the explosive gases flying around. It wasn’t so much weird as annoying when someone decided they needed a nap and hopped into any old bunk to start snoring.

However: it was really weird when that person turned out to be the Big Boss Man.

The Lancer-Initiate stood at the end of his own bunk, looking down on the Elder. He was lying there with the blanket pulled up to just below his armpits, arms folded across both the blanket and his impressively broad chest, suddenly revealed as sporting a fair amount of extremely manly chest hair.

The Elder treated him to a cool stare, which is pretty easy with a pair of eyes like his. Though… not so much when you’re ass-naked and rubbing yourself on someone’s sheets. That’s just too much fun to waste a straight face on it.

“You’ve destroyed sensitive information,” said the Elder. “You’ve defaced Brotherhood property. And you’ve consistently cheeked and talked back to your superiors, myself included.”

The Lancer-Initiate nodded thoughtfully. It was somewhat unfortunate that all those things had been noticed. But, the Brotherhood were supposed to be a highly-effective organization full of highly-trained experts, after all. They should have been able to detect a craftily-disguised agen…

uh…

A highly-trained Lancer-Initiate who _totally_ knew how to fly a vertibird.

“You’ve been trying to get my attention,” said the Elder.

That wasn’t _exactly_ the Lancer-Initiate’s plan. He preferred a more hush-hush approach. Uh… to vertibirds. They like it when you talk to them, but only if you use your inside-voice, otherwise they get spooked and you have to chase them.

(What do you mean, that’s brahmin? Who’s the Lancer-Initiate here?)

“Well,” said the Elder, raising his arms, and tucking his hands behind his head. A little more chest hair peeked out from under the blanket, and perhaps just the edge of a nipple. “Now you’ve got it.”

The Lancer-Initiate raised his eyebrows.

“Awesome,” he said. He pulled off his flight suit in an extremely dramatic and fluent manoeuvre, almost as though he’d spent long hours practicing it, and slid between the sheets next to the Elder.

He rested his arm over that deliciously furry chest.

“Just so you know, I’m not really down for anything more than a snuggle,” said the Lancer-Initiate. “Not on a first date. But just snuggling is nice, right? You are kind of like a teddy bear. So fluffy. How do you keep it so soft? Do you use product?”

 

And that’s the story of how I got thrown off the Prydwen the _fourth_ time. After a little more quality snuggle-time, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150318300942/6-with-maxson-deacon-pleasee)


	5. [Insert Booty Joke Here]

Once upon a time, in the golden age of seafaring, all nations plied the seas in peace and prosperity…

I’m just kidding, of course they didn’t. Nations sabotaged each other by trying to cut off trade routes, sinking each other’s ships and stealing each other’s cargoes. They attacked coastal cities and demanded protection money from all and sundry, as is the way of nations in every age.

But it wouldn’t do to have a big old national flag flapping away while cannons blasted and people lost their lives, so heads of state looked to hire privateers, vessels and crews tasked with doing the dirty work under a different flag.

One such flag belonged to the Brotherhood of Steel, a company so named for the heavy diving suits they used to retrieve sunken cargoes and the metal plating with which they sheathed their ships.

And one such ship was called the Prydwen.

The captain of this fine vessel was a young man named Arthur Maxson. He was a fearsome fellow, with shoulders so broad and arms so strong they say he could carry a full-size cannon into battle. He had a thick beard, a great scar down one side of his face and, of course, an eye-patch.

He was no ordinary man, that’s for sure. At the age of fourteen, the ship on which he was serving as cabin boy was attacked and sunk. Clinging to the wreckage, the survivors were beset by a giant and hungry shark. Arthur Maxson killed that shark with his bare hands. 

And so the legend was born.

One day, perhaps a half dozen years later, those bare hands were resting on the deck railing of the Prydwen as he stared moodily across the choppy waters of the bay.

“I care about them, you know,” he said. “The people of the Commonwealth.”

“Sure you do,” said a nearby able seaman. “That’s why you’re extorting them for protection money, right?”

Maxson turned and stared at the AB. “You there,” he said. “I don’t know your face. What’s your rank?”

“Able seaman, sir,” said the AB, who was devilishly handsome and wore a pair of eyeglasses with little round lenses of smoked glass. “Just joined the crew back in the last port.”

“I wasn’t aware that we were taking on new recruits,” said Maxson. “What’s your experience?”

“I’m well-acquainted with my duties,” said the AB. “Minimum two years experience at sea, yes sir. I know alllll the navigational terms and I am really good at security watches. Specially anchor watch. Nobody’s going to run off with it while my eyes are on it, I can assure you.”

Maxson fixed the AB with a particularly suspicious one-eyed stare and seemed to be preparing to speak again. But then a shout echoed up from the bowels of the ship, then another one, and then a woman burst out onto the deck, dressed in the apparel of a Brotherhood cannoneer, dark hair loose around her shoulders.

“Got it,” she yelled, waving a book over her head, before stuffing it into an oilcloth bag which she slung over her shoulder. “C'mon, let’s blow this joint!”

Now, Maxson recognized this book immediately as his own personal ledger, containing details of deals and protection arrangements and hidden caches, amongst other things. Private things.

 _Very_ private things.

So as she accelerated across the deck toward the railing and made to vault over it, he reached into his coat for his pistol.

The holster was empty.

He whirled back around to the AB, who was holding the weapon in the air with a faintly apologetic expression on his face. “Sorry,” he said, tossing it overboard. “Nice boat, by the way. Great anchor, top notch. Very… stoppy. Oh… and in future? You might want to be more careful about who you’ve got watching the cannons, too. Just in case.”

The AB grinned and made the shapes of flintlock pistols with his fingers, then jumped into the water in probably the most graceful swan dive that has ever been seen.

Maxson turned back to the railing and leaned over it. Below, the AB was just being helped into a small rowing boat by the woman, who looked up and raised her middle fingers in the air before laughing and grabbing an oar.

Given the sensitive nature of the contents of that ledger, Maxson would probably have fired on them, had the Prydwen’s cannons not been found to be inexplicably missing all their fuses. And it’s pretty hard to chase after even a tiny boat like theirs when your anchor mechanism’s mysteriously stuck.

Thusly, the daring duo made their escape, never to be seen again by Captain Arthur Maxson.

Well. Not that he knew, anyway.

_And that, friends, is how the family tradition of getting thrown off the Prydwen really started._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here.](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/151348255330/bos-drabble-pirate-au-please-pretty-please)


	6. Smooth

Arthur Maxson sleeps like the dead.

Well. That’s not entirely true. Strictly speaking, we’d only be able to use that comparison if the dead made a sound somewhere between ‘malfunctioning vertibird’ and ‘irate deathclaw’ with every breath. Every breath they’re not taking, because they’re dead. Obviously.

So okay, revised opening sentence: Arthur Maxson sleeps extremely heavily and noisily.

Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it but never mind.

Getting back to the story; the Elder’s sleeping habits and the slightly unusual schedule he keeps are a well-known fact among the crew of the Prydwen, but it does take some getting used to. Many a green Lancer-Initiate has been seen running to Kells in a panic to report a potential malfunction in the engines only for the Lancer-Captain to break into an extremely rare smile and explain the concept of _siesta_.

Once.

Only once.

After that it’s latrine duties.

The Lancer-Initiate slopped out his bucket after a particularly long stint in said latrines. After a quick scrub of himself, he wandered through to the mess hall and sat down at a table with his fellow newest recruits, all sat shoveling noodles into their faces. One Scribe, one Initiate, and one actual Aspirant. They didn’t turn up their noses too badly so the scrub must have been enough.

“So,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Isn’t it about time for my hazing?”

Three blank faces looked back at him.

The Lancer-Initiate sighed. “You know, the ritual humiliation of the new bug?”

“I don’t think we do that,” said the Scribe, with a glance at his companions.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he replied. “Even the Gunners do a hazing. Although theirs involves more blood. Most of what they do does, in fact. You don’t want to know what their performance evaluations are like.”

“No,” said the Scribe, slowly, “I don’t,” and the other two shake their heads as well.

“Good job too,” said the Lancer-Initiate. “This is about my hazing, not the Gunners. Okay, so I don’t know what they were teaching you back in the Capital but maybe you don’t know how these things go. There are several ways to haze. There’s the fairly traditional paddling, there’s the also-traditional making me drink until I puke, or there’s the dare me to go into the Elder’s room while he’s sleeping and apply radioactive depilatory cream to his face and maybe his eyebrows.”

The Aspirant snorted over her noodles. “Radioactive depi…”

The Lancer Initiate reached into his pocket and pulled out four slightly-squashed tubes-o-goo, slamming them on the table.

The Initiate picked one up and read the label. “‘Now with added Uranium for extra glow’? Oh my God. Where did you even get these?”

“For no longer than seven minutes. Longer than that and the extra glow is a bit more… well, potentially fatal. I’m only telling you because nobody reads the safety notes but they’re _really_ important in this case. Anyway, I got them from Danse’s locker.”

Everyone looked up, open-mouthed in wonder.

“Why would Danse have… these?” demanded the Aspirant.

The Lancer-Initiate spread his hands in a gesture of surprise. “C’mon, guys, look at the amount of hair on his head. The five o'clock shadow at lunchtime. That gleaming bare chest takes some serious maintenance.”

“I can’t say I’ve looked,” came the reply.

“Yeah you have,” said the Lancer Initiate, with a grin. “We all have.”

Two pairs of rosy-red cheeks and one excessively innocent expression told him he was right. No blustering, though, just some studious reading of safety notes.

“Oh man,” said the Lancer-Initiate, wiping a tear from his eye, and reaching out to collect the tubes. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

“We’re not,” said the Initiate, keeping a hold of her tube. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“What?” he replied, trying to pull it from her hand. “You know how deeply he sleeps, it’ll be fine. In and out. Seven minutes. Plus a few for scraping, you know. Exfoliation.”

“Yes, but it’s the Elder,” replied the Initiate, refusing to let go. “You can’t do that…”

The Lancer-Initiate finally wrestled the tube from her grip, leaving her sprawled over the table, and almost knocking an empty noodle bowl from it in the process. “Oh my God,” he said. “I get it. Reverse psychology. You’ve been psyching me out all along, haven’t you. Man, you guys are great. I’m so glad I joined the Brotherhood of… of…”

He stuffed the tubes back in his pocket, pulled up his sleeve and read a few words that were scrawled there in blue ink. “Steel! Steel. Yeah. That. Anyway, I’d best be off.”

Ignoring the pleas that rose up from behind him, the Lancer-Initiate walked away from the table. He only just managed to stop himself whistling the [jaunty tune](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D6Whgn_iE5uc&t=ZmU2NGYzMzQ3M2ZkNDA5NzYyYjQwN2IwMWMzNzUzZTNlMWVmMmM5ZSx6TTZsdkk0ZA%3D%3D&b=t%3APO9Xcs7nFndrZYgYlkI2LQ&m=1) that was running through his head; but his next mission required a more… stealthy approach.

I mean… he wouldn’t want to get thrown off the Prydwen, or anything. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted [here](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/152571208350/smooth)
> 
> this came about because [MaxRev](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxRev/pseuds/MaxRev) tagged me into a headcanon by @headcanonsforcompanions: tl;dr is that [Deacon plans to assassinate Maxson… ‘s beard](http://headcanonsforcompanions.tumblr.com/post/152435860479).
> 
> to be continued? idk.


	7. Lush Life (or something)

Once upon a time (you know where this is going already, right?) there was a town called Goodneighbor. It was the kind of place people went to cut loose and have a good time… and buy chems and guns and sleep in the streets because they had nowhere else to go but that’s not what this particular story is about.

This story is about a day, a special day for a certain blue-clad vault-dweller. It was something to do with the date and a changing number, and in honor of that occasion, Hancock was throwing a party. Carefully typewritten invites (Goodneighbor being curiously well-stocked with those devices at that particular time) went out well in advance, posters went up, and a call went out all over the Commonwealth for extra musicians.

On the day in question, one such musician stepped through the door and headed straight down to talk to the lady in charge of that side of the entertainment.

“Hi,” he said, with a wide smile designed to put her at ease. “I heard you were looking for musicians.”

Magnolia turned to give him a long, slow, up-and-down. “That is indeed the case,” she said. “What’re you bringing to my table, or, should I say, my stage?”

The musician held up the large black case he’d brought in with him, and paused for a moment before speaking. For effect, mind you, definitely not because he couldn’t remember the name for the instrument inside it. “Nice piece of brass,” he said. “You know.”

“Huh,” said Magnolia. “Alright. Let’s see what you can do.” And she laid down a few sheets of paper covered in musical notation and scrawled commentary on the table in front of him.

The musician left them there and kept smiling.

Magnolia raised her eyebrow. “Honey,” she said, “I’m liking the glasses, real mysterious. But you might want to take ‘em off so you can actually see what you’re doin’.”

The musician looked up at her with a wounded expression that probably couldn’t be seen under those glasses, but that’s beside the point. “I don’t need to see the music,” he said. “I feel it. Right here.”

As he pointed at the part of himself in which he felt said music, Magnolia’s lips curved up into a smile, albeit a lopsided one that could also have been described as a smirk. “Well alright then,” she said, propping her hand on her hip. “You’re hired. I suppose with an innate sense of rhythm like yours you don’t need to practice none, neither?”

The musician shook his head in agreement. “You and I,” he said, “we understand each other. I like that. I don’t know why you haven’t invited me here before.”

“No,” said Magnolia, slowly. “Neither do I.”

 

The rest of the day’s preparations went on around the musician, who sat in the corner of the bar with the instrument in his hands, fingers tapping on the… buttons, or whatever, pressing his lips against the… blowy thing. Eventually, the guests started filtering in, the lights were dimmed, and the band struck up. The stage wasn’t large enough for everyone, so they’d organized a rota system. Flag out, tag in, that sort of thing. So about half an hour into operations, the musician’s predecessor stumbled off the stage, dripping with sweat and already lifting his hand to signal Whitechapel Charlie for a drink.

“Your turn,” he said, hoarsely.

The musician grinned, and made his way up on to the stage.

As he took his position, Magnolia leaned over to him. “This is a quiet one, darlin’, special request. Don’t go too mad.”

The reason for this soon became clear as the Mayor swept his partner out onto the floor. The music swelled, Magnolia crooned, Hancock held his would-be-lover close, and just as he leaned in for the kill… uh, kiss… the musician lifted the horn to his lips and blew.

An odd strangled sound emitted from the instrument, and the couple broke apart with expressions that were on their way to shocked, at the very least.

Magnolia looked over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

 _Warm up_ , mouthed the musician. _Sorry_.

She rolled her eyes and started back up, and so did Hancock, if you know what I’m saying. So the musician waited for the music to swell again, for croons to reach their crescendo, for lips to meet…

This time he managed a fairly strident **BRAAAAAHP** before the sound dwindled into the same hoarse whine as before.

Magnolia turned again, this time with both eyebrows raised and hand over her microphone. “And just what do you think you’re doin’?”

The musician still had the horn at his lips and he could tell by the heavy footsteps heading right for him that he wasn’t going to get time for a traditional answer so he blew it again, sending out a descending note of sadness which expressed his feelings really rather well.

“Oh come on,” said Hancock, pulling away from his partner for the third time.

“You just don’t appreciate my art,” said the musician, as Fahrenheit grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him toward the door. “You gotta challenge your perceptions, guys, step outside of the comfort zone. Tell them, Magnolia. Magnolia?”

* * *

_And that, friends, is the story of how I got thrown out of the Third Rail on the Vault Dweller’s birthday. But don’t worry yourselves, I snuck back in and got some cake. Just… don’t tell Hancock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/152736780650/probably-a-month-ago-now-sorry-i-promised-a)
> 
> probably a month ago now (SORRY) I promised a drabble to [ as a reward for a small trivia quiz in the last chapter of ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hotrockcandy/pseuds/hotrockcandy)[Legal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6997813).
> 
> the theme requested was **music**  
>  the word **Goodneighbor** was mentioned  
>  the rest is fate.


	8. into the fire… and right back out again, are you kidding me? yikes

Once upon a time, there was a particularly handsome mercenary who’d had enough of life on the road and wanted to settle down, preferably somewhere warm.

Obviously the climate on the north-eastern coast of post-apocalyptia didn’t have that many options vis-a-vis tropical retirement homes, but the mercenary was pretty damn smart too and had already come up with a plan. So he took to the road for one last time, walking himself up to the north-east of the north-east of said apocalyptia to a charming and (crucially) well-heated locale known as the Saugus Ironworks.

When he arrived, he put his hands on his hips and looked up at the building. He was greeted by a hail of bullets and a few choice expletives.

“Owowowow,” he said, as one of those bullets skimmed past his ear and pinged off the concrete path behind him. “C'mon guys, ceasefire, ceasefire, I just want to submit my résumé.”

There was no reply, or at least no change in the levels of gunfire and actually  _really_ explicit expletives.

“Seriously,” he said, “I can assure you that I’m completely happy committing indiscriminate murder of the innocent for the sake of a few caps. It’s all in my cover letter.”

“Get fucked, scavver,” came an actual reply. “We ain’t hirin’.”

But there was a pause in the shooting, so he moved cautiously forward. “I’ve got a great work ethic and I’m a real team-player,” he said, eyeing a small pile of bodies, stripped of all their valuables and left to fester in the sun. “I think that, given the chance, I could be a real asset for your organization.”

One of the Forged stood right in the doorway to the ironworks, fliplighter paused just next to the rag of a fresh molotov. The flame was held close enough for the edges of the fabric to begin to curl, and a wisp of smoke to float up into the air.

The soon-to-be-Forged winced. “Uh,” he said. “I have an offering, too? I heard that’s one of the entry requirements.”

She sniffed, a loud, kinda disgusting sound that indicated some sort of medical problem exacerbated by too long spent in a polluted atmosphere without protective facewear, but was probably intended to indicate some level of disinterest.

“Okay,” she said, clearly interested. “What you got?”

He lifted his pack.  “A real sweet piece of weaponry,” he said. “You’re gonna love it. Well, your boss is. He in the office today?”

She regarded him for a moment, a long moment filled with far more burned-rag-smell than the soon-to-be-Forged was really comfortable. But at last she snapped the lighter shut, and put the gently-smoking molotov back in a case of several of them in an extremely kickable spot inside the doorway.

He looked up at the health and safety poster on the wall advising against exactly that sort of behavior, but decided against commenting. First impressions are very important when job-hunting, after all. He didn’t want to come across as a troublemaker right from the get-go.

“Classy decor,” he said, as they climbed labyrinthine metal staircases and crossed alarmingly fragile walkways. “All the uncovered vats of molten metal are a nice touch. Lava-esque. I know a guy who’d like this, actually. Horns? Tail? Penchant for eternal damnation?”

“The fuck are you talking about?” snapped his guide.

The soon-to-be-Forged cleared his throat. “Never mind.”

-

Eventually they came to a central chamber with a _really_ big vat of molten metal, surrounded by weeping captives and a kid who didn’t look like he wanted to be there any more than they did. On a walkway behind it stood a guy in power armor, with a close-shaven head and less-close-shaven chin, along with a few glamorous assistants that one could reasonably assume were more of the Forged.

Not a hard hat among them. Disgraceful.

“Hey Slag,” said his guide. “This asshole wants to join. Says he’s got a weapon for us.”

The suit clanked down the steps and stopped in front of the vat, or crucible or whatever. He was something of a majestic sight, actually, what with the red-orange halo of smoke rising behind him and a fancy modded sword in his hand.

“Why?” he growled.

“Why what?” replied the soon-to-be-Forged.

“Why do you want in?” growled Slag, even more growl-ily.

“Well,” said the soon-to-be-Forged. “I like a good roasting as much as the next guy. But it’s the thought of indiscriminate murder that really motivates me, gets me to work in the morning with joy in my heart.”

“Huh,” said Slag, unconvinced. “We’ll see about that. So what is it? This offering?”

The soon-to-be-Forged unbuckled his pack, flung back the flap with a flourish, and lifted the weapon for the Forged’s approval.

“The fuck is that?” asked Slag.

“This,” said the soon-to-be-Forged, proudly, “is The Cryolator. Most advanced weapon in the Commonwealth. One of a kind, almost impossible to get hold of.”

Slag narrowed his eyes. “What does it do?”

The soon-to-be-Forged grinned. “Freezes stuff.”

Slag paused, before letting out a harsh, barking laugh. “What the fuck good is that? Get out of here, stop wasting my time.”

“Hear me out,” said the soon-to-be-Forged. “I know you got your whole fire aesthetic going, but trust me, frost-fire is the way to go. True, it’s not an official spec right now but look…”

He raised the weapon and pulled the trigger, spraying a cloud of ice crystals over the guard who’d led him in.

“The fu…” she said, or started to say, falling still and silent and glittering slightly in the orange light of the forge.

“Whoops,” said the soon-to-be-Forged. “It’s a good look, but that’s not what I meant to happen. Let me just check the settings.”

He flipped a switch, and raised the gun again. This time, a ball of packed ice slammed into the side of Slag’s head, knocking him off-balance and almost into the vat of molten metal behind him. Half of it exploded into a shower of snow that evaporated immediately in the heat, but a good chunk appeared to slither right down inside the angry Forged’s power armor.

“Nope, that’s not it either,” said the soon-to-be-Forged, flicking the switch again.

“Get him,” shouted Slag, as another cloud of frozen mist surrounded him, fusing the joints of his power armor and locking him to the spot before he could even raise his sword.

“Sorry!” replied the soon-to-be-Forged, spraying even more ice over the Forged who rushed to help their boss, immobilizing them all in a few moments. “Can’t seem to shut it off, for some reason. Oh. Oh! There we go.”

“Please,” said one of the captives, who had fortuitously been just out of range of The Cryolator’s powerful and exceedingly dangerous blast. “Just… let us go.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” growled Slag, as the soon-to-be-Forged untied the captives’ hands and sent them and the kid packing toward the exit. “I am going to hunt you down and cut you up. This sword is going to drink your blood.”

“Wow,” said the soon-to-be-Forged. “Electrified, on fire, _and_ vampiric? Are you compensating for something? And you know it’s a really bad idea to hold something like that with wet hands. Here, let me help.”

Slag snarled an inaudible reply, his suit rattling as the internal release switches refused to respond to his increasingly desperate efforts. “You are gonna regret this so bad.”

“I doubt it,” said the soon-to-be-Forged, prying the sword from his stricken hand. “I mean, look at this place. You’re gonna kill yourselves before you get out of the building. You just can’t run a solid murder-torture-pillage operation, cultish or not, without a qualified health-and-safety officer. The violations I’ve seen just in this short space of time, _honestly_. You should be ashamed. Listen, I hate to break it to you but I’m not so sure this job is gonna be a good fit for me. I’m sorry. But I sincerely hope you find a candidate that’s right for you.”

* * *

_And that’s the story of how I didn’t even give the Forged the chance to throw me out. Remember, kids: health and safety may seem like a pain in the ass but it is important._

_Oh, and, uh. Stay frosty._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit to @deichqueen, @shellbacker, and @frenziedgem1 for ~~putting up with me at all~~ the elements of this that came up in chat earlier. you the real MVPs. :fingerguns:
> 
> originally posted here: [into the fire](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/159798788105/into-the-fire-and-right-back-out-again-are-you)

**Author's Note:**

> The original prompt list is closed now but I am open to suggestion so if you have any requests for a lil Storytime with Deacon ficlet please do [ping me an ask](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/contact). :)


End file.
